


The Turning of Heaven and Earth

by wolfdancer333



Category: Skip Beat!
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Broken Hearts, But it all ends happily, F/M, Family Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happily Ever After, Hizuri Family Dynamic, I love me some angst, Julie Hizuri is a confident and wonderful woman and I already love her, Kuon's Angst, Lory meddles, Love for Kuon because he deserves it, yashiro fangirling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-07 04:32:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17953652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfdancer333/pseuds/wolfdancer333
Summary: Loosely based after Skip Beat! chapter 266! Some spoilers! The world had turned upside down, collapsing onto a Fairy Prince with shredded wings and a broken Golden Princess. When everything changes, will they fight? Or will they be consumed by Fate?





	The Turning of Heaven and Earth

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!! 
> 
> This is based right after chapter 266 and before the bonus chapter and before the newest Chapter 267's release! So I guess it is sort of an AU? Or maybe just a different resolution to the events of Chapter 266. Either way, I hope you enjoy reading it! :)

A coil of uneasy trepidation had wound tight deep in his belly the moment Yashiro had braked the car and he saw her standing next to the devil himself – he shrugged off Yashiro’s spouted, half-hazard excuses because that _was_ Fuwa. He _knew_ it, felt it, and the tight, metal coil only wound tighter and tighter, squeezing the inside of his stomach. His gut clenched so hard he felt physically ill. 

The Sun was peeping out from pure white clouds that drifted past it’s shafts of light in the clear blue sky, tempting with it’s bright warmth and misguided beauty. An icy chill hung clear and heavy in the air, a bitingly sharp wind ghosting through hair and nipping at exposed skin. Yashiro had cranked the heater up to a moderate level – Yashiro was, as usual, garbed in his light brown suit and Ren wore a button up shirt with a thick, hung open jacket – and the dry heat battled with the icy chill of Winter that still clung to the barren trees and frosty mornings.

His stomach rolled in his belly with a twinge of nausea. Gritting his teeth and swallowing thickly past the bitter taste lounging in back of his throat, foreboding, he narrowed his harsh gaze.

Dark brown eyes never moved from her, from the way her hands flew and gestured, moving with her words as if writing them in the wind with her breath and her soft skin. Slightly pink lips moved into an easy, comfortable smile – one she never wore with him, the biting sick slithered and harshly whispered into his blood – and her lips parted, and he knew by the way her shoulders shook, bright gold eyes crinkled, that she was laughing. 

And he _hated_ it. 

And he hated himself for hating it.

Worst of all was when her face brightened and it seemed the two of them were lost in their own world, a world Ren…. _No_ , a world Kuon had tried to go against, a Fate and a calling he had tried to fight. It was a world between them, between Kyoko and Fuwa, a world without _him_ – without a bloody, broken Fairy Prince with torn asunder wings that had once made a Princess laugh, just like she was now with the Devil. 

Acrid and acidic, poisonous hate boiled, bubbling hotly through the veins beneath his skin. The lump of bile sitting heavily in his throat soured, burning the back of his mouth and coating his tongue in the bitterness of hate and rage that flooded him like an erupting volcano. The roof of his mouth, his tongue, his throat all coated in a dark, ashy bitterness as his stomach and his blood throbbed and burned with molten heat that threatened to burst from him in a fiery blast that he was sure would burn everything he had ever loved – and he wasn’t sure what kind of explosion it would be, but when Yashiro looked back and met his gaze, he guessed by the way his oldest and he dared say his closest friend, looked fearfully horrified that it wouldn’t be good.

It had been such a long time since he’d felt like this. Yashiro shot the car forward, rambling excuses Ren only half heardly cared to listen to. It wasn’t an actor that sat in the back seat of the car, leather cool against his volcanic flesh, blood a burning fire: it was Kuon. Or, well, rather it was the monster he had been, back in city lights and dark alleys littered with disappointment and a violence that tingled like an itch that couldn’t be sated. 

His hands curled into tight fists on his knees, pale white like pure bone, and he looked down at them as Yashiro wove through traffic, leaving behind one secret and propelling Kuon into the next. They were….She was laughing, smiling. They were _happy_. In the darkness of night, she _kissed_ Devils with poisonous lips, her hate dissolved and unravelled, a kink in the timeline of Fate forgotten as if it had never been there at all. Somewhere through the rushing fire in his blood and the numb bitterness that lapped over him in crashingly heavy waves, in the darkest corners, his heart twinged painfully. 

She was the one who kissed the Devil but he was the one who ended up poisoned.

Heaven and Earth flipped, caving into one another, collapsing and falling apart until the pieces of both collided and Kuon couldn’t tell which was which. Jagged pieces of the puzzle shifted and the picture he had been piecing together didn’t match any more, the image dastardly bleak and twisted.

All he could see, staring down at his white fists and feeling the hot bubble of rage, was her bright laughter and Fuwa’s look – the same look Kuon wore every time he looked at Kyoko, too. In his mind all he could see was her face tilted up, fingers on her soft jaw and her small chin, the Devil’s poison pressed into her, hidden in the night. She’d never mentioned a word or sought advice from him, the fragile thread of their dependent relationship fraying. She couldn’t trust him enough to tell him and Kuon wasn’t sure if he was upset she didn’t say anything or more upset by the fact that it didn’t matter because his anger wouldn’t be lessened even if she had confided in him. 

And there he was, tattered wings, drenched in blood, and hoping he was enough.

He was. 

Until she realized he was nothing but a masked liar, a beastly monster parading around with a rusty, rotten crown on his snarling head.

Brighter than the Sun, her smile was the flint that struck and emblazoned the fire burning through him, the knot in his throat hard and smouldering hotter like a lump of fiery coal. 

He tried to breathe, tried to remember that he wasn’t like this, that right now he was Tsuruga, Ren. 

But monsters don’t listen to words or reason. 

No matter how he tried to breathe through the venomous metal-scaled snake wrapped around his heart, or the lava bubbling and spurting in his gut, the snake’s jealous, fury soaked fangs pierced and sunk deeply into his heart. He knew by Yashiro’s wide eyed glances and the tight, thin line of his manager’s mouth in the rear-view mirror, that he looked as monstrous as he felt. Sunlight fell through the window to touch the dark creature in the back of the car but he watched it falter and was thrust back to a teen boy in a large, empty room in a large, empty house, beaten and bruised. Covered in blood, he watched as the dark bubble slowly swallowed not just him but the bright happiness and smiling light from his parents.

The only thing that had saved him – that, if he were being honest, always saved him – was the memory of a Princess in a magickal grove, her smile bright with golden irises that reminded him of hope. 

And oh, how deeply the Beast loved her.

But no matter how much the Beast loved her, she never saw anyone but the lying, undeserving Prince.

The knot his throat grew thicker, his lungs constricting as he fought to breathe in the suddenly too small car and the familiar darkness that seeped into him was numb and cold, killing off his feelings as it turned the heated thrum of his blood to a slow, icy crawl. Everything faded around him, his ears buzzing from the collapsing flip of his world, and his eyes focused only on his bleach white hands, the pain of his nails digging into the tender flesh of his palm only a prick in his consciousness. 

This was familiar because he could still remember the chill wrapping him in an embrace as he beat countless boys who had dared cross him until his knuckles were bruised and torn, his skin swollen and fleshy, blood caked over his fists and his body. He numbed himself and he could feel it slithering over him like an icy second skin until he was almost sure he was covered in it. Yashiro’s voice was still rambling out excuses and when they slowly ground to a halt, Kuon winced, his brown orbs roiling dark like soil that had never seen the Sun as he turned his head to the side to avoid his manager’s probing and concerned stare. 

His gaze remained on his tight fists, his slacks brunched beneath his coiled fingers and his arms subtly trembling beneath his inky black jacket. The last thing Kuon wanted was her pain, he didn’t want to hurt her in anyway, and he never wanted to ever be like Fuwa in her golden eyes – he would never hurt her like that stupid, selfish fucking brat that didn’t know what he had lost….

But it didn’t look like he had lost her at all.

When, quite literally, she’d been thrust back into his life – by her own determination and gutsy willpower that even he had to acknowledge as superb for a teenage girl – Kuon, and ultimately his acting mask Ren, had hated her motive. How dare this tiny slip of a girl just barge her way into an entertainment agency, looking not for fame or even to fangirl over him but…. _Revenge?_ How dare she spit on the years he put behind him, the struggle of a child trying to live up to his father’s impossible legend? He didn’t bleed and grow and leave behind his home to let a girl with a motive like that join the entertainment world. 

It just wasn’t possible and he had shaken it off with a roll of his eyes and Ren’s gentle facade while just beneath the surface, Kuon had stirred.

Now he understood. Oh, he more than he understood it – he _hated_ it. 

Once, he had hated her motive, and he still didn’t want her spending any more time seeking revenge, wasting her pure heart on only destroying herself. Now he hated knowing just how easily Fuwa could influence her, how deep his poison had sunk into Kyoko. It was so engrained into her very being that every time she was near him, the poison spun through her blood and she saw nothing but the arrogant prick and the rest of the world faded but each other.

He didn’t want to see her devoured by the emotions Fuwa invoked but he didn’t want her to forgive the bastard either.

Kuon was just as selfish and possessive as Fuwa, Sho. 

The only difference was that Kuon was losing.

Then, Yashiro’s unusually quiet voice from the front, “Ren. We’re almost there.” A hesitant pause of uncertainty. “I can’t give you any more time but….You’ll lose her with a face like that.”

And oh he knew he would. If Kyoko saw him she would scream, run the other way, and do so every time she saw him for the rest of both of their lives. A sick, twisted part of him wondered if that wasn’t actually better for her but then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath of dry air until his lungs trembled in his chest, and blew it out. When he opened his eyes, the contacts couldn’t reflect the light from the window past the darkness behind them and his fists remained, though he loosened them and pasted on a smile just as Yashiro pulled up to the curb in front of the Daruma-ya.

The store front looked the same as it always did on any other day but Kuon couldn’t push the images earlier from his mind. They played out like a movie as he stared out the car window, fake smile plastered on his lips and the hard mask he wore the only thing keeping him from fading back into the dark anger that still rumbled within him, quietly, ready to strike the moment he lost his footing in this new, crazy world where Kyoko didn’t hate Fuwa and they kissed in stolen moments of the night.

Then she was there and it wasn’t just Earth that flipped beneath the car. Heaven fell from the sky and into the girl walking steadily toward the car, her steps light and the gold of her eyes shining. Her smile was real if not a bit smaller and Kuon felt the heaviness of his past shift away, hovering above his skin like static, and the coil in his gut, the fire in his blood, kindled to a slow pause. She was there, bright smile, and his slipped naturally from fake to a soft, wide curl that allowed light to break the surface of his brown orbs, shining into his heart and chasing away the icy shadows.

He felt it deep inside of him, the way she lit him up from within and the way she – only her – could ever make him forget that he was a monster and that monsters didn’t touch Princesses with their clawed, bloody hands. He forgot that Kuon was a murderer, a chained beast, a Fairy Prince with shredded wings who had never learned to fly and only fall. For one moment, she smiled and he smiled, and everything was perfect.

Until the world slipped from beneath him and he was weightless, drowning, in the aftermath of the shift, reeling and dizzy and frozen, unable to feel and think.

The Okami bustled out, calling to Kyoko, and the perfect world melted away, blown away by the icy wind that brushed at his swept back and to the side dyed brown hair from the open car door. A flash of a kiss, laughing, playing like a couple in the daylight, and a silver pin left in her home….

Cracks burst through the shell of his mask as he sat there, turned towards the open car door as the engine quietly rumbled and he tried desperately to hold onto the slipping mask that was the only thing between him and her. If she saw, if she looked upon him and saw his rage, what would she truly see….What would she think? This thought, whispered quietly from deep inside him, was the only thing that kept him from reacting at all.

It didn’t, however, stop the spectacle that unfolded – humorously, despite his blank emotions and cracked mask – outside the silver car and confused the Okami greatly.

As usual, both Kyoko and Yashiro managed to overreact in the worst way.

She was in front of the car door and he absently wondered if she thought she had become invisible when she suddenly ducked down, hunched over with her head buried in her hands. Her back and small shoulders were trembling beneath her white, knitted jumper and he could hear faint murmurs that he couldn’t understand as gloom seemed to hover over her bright orange head, hanging like a black cloud ready to devour her whole. Yashiro was, if anyone asked and the manager wasn’t around, the best Kuon could have ever asked for. He kept the fans at a distance with a single look, he was not only good at organizing and managing his client but he was also good at multitasking schedules and keeping away the press, the man also had a knack for teasing but not prying into Kuon’s life.

And then there was this one little problem with Yashiro: if Kyoko was involved, the man suddenly became something straight out of a Shoujo manga with big sparkly eyes and a penchant for playing matchmaker, overreacting in any and all situations involving said girl.

This was, oddly and funnily, one of those times. 

Where Kyoko had decided to hunker down and try to disappear, Yashiro became an expert at theatre dramatics. Looking like the world was ending with his head thrown back and fingers curled over his face with his knees bent slightly outward, spine lengthened but bent back, Yashiro made the perfect image of a man who had decided the world hated him and life was over. Smile frozen on his wooden mask, Kuon attempted to restart but found his body was so numb it felt like he was floating outside of it, watching a film starring himself. Emotions were there but dampened by his inability to _feel_ and all he could do was stare at the scene outside the car as an observer who had lost all feeling and control of his body. 

Except….

He hadn’t lost _all_ feeling.

Before her, Kuon had known nothing of love and desire. Now, bitterly, coldly, he wished he still didn’t.

Like an idiot, he’d given in to his feelings, decided to face them instead of run from them, and now he was thrust back to being that broken, angry teenager whose wings were grabbed and torn before he could reach the sky, being swallowed by the black emptiness inside of his soul. She’d shown him love and he wanted to tear out his beating heart from the cage of bone and flesh, sure that ripping it out would hurt less than the slow, agonizing pain of it breaking. 

Broken hearts were meant to shatter like glass, quick and all at once, breaking into sharp, tiny shards that would hurt for weeks, months, years to come in constant stabs. 

But it wasn’t like that at all for Kuon.

When something shattered, you still had the pieces, you could pick them up no matter how sharp they were and fit them back together like a puzzle. You could make something new from something broken and the Japanese would often pour in gold to broken dishes and broken glass, creating something beautiful and new in golden imperfection. Hearts were the same, in a way, and even though broken, they could be _fixed_.

The actor in him rebelled and like a puppet whose strings suddenly jerked by the marionette’s hands, the ice within him cracked and splintered and Kuon forced himself to do what he did best: act. 

Because his heart wasn’t shattered, it wasn’t just broken. 

It was much worse than that.

What was meant to be quick and sharp was a steady throb, a slow pulse, and it fucking hurt but….It was a knife stabbed deep into his chest, right in the centre of his beating heart, and with every pump of blood and life, the agonizing pain burned, slow and heady. Little pricks like the tip of a needle poked and pierced him and his heart didn’t shatter. Instead it remained whole, pumping still blood around the metal edge of the knife, a constant pulse against the knife reminding him that in order to be fixed, it first had to shatter. And he knew, if he pulled out the knife, just how much worse the pain would be.

But it wasn’t up to him. The hand wrapped around the hilt of the thick blade was Kyoko’s and all she had to do was slide it out, slowly, and already he could feel blood pooling, stickily bitter and hot, in his throat. 

At first he didn’t recognize the hot burn in his throat that built up behind his eyes, stinging and clawing it’s way out as he blinked and fought it back. The moment he recognized it, he stomped and shoved it down, pulling all the strength and years of willpower as an actor, falling into the role of Tsuruga, Ren.

Tsuruga, Ren didn’t cry. He didn’t cry over something as…. _Insignificant_ as childhood friends and a bond he couldn’t break, no matter how much he pushed or how hard he fought, and he didn’t cry over a girl who meant _nothing_ to him. And no matter what he had to do or say, he was going to force himself to believe that. That was easy; Tsuruga, Ren had no reason to love Mogami, Kyoko and he had to make both sides of himself believe it. 

The more he fought – fought to believe he was better than a monster, that he deserved Kyoko and had a right to love her, that he was better than Fuwa – the more he lost.

He _had_ to let go of her, of the suffocating emotions, and his heart was fluttering against the blade of the knife, cutting deeper and deeper, blood slowly seeping out of him and burning it’s way right beneath his skin. And he wondered if he might spontaneously combust. _That_ would surely cause Yashiro to be even more dramatic than he was being now. 

Fighting was all Kuon knew how to do, it was the only thing he had ever learned to do that worked and made him powerful. Beasts only knew how to fight, to destroy, they didn’t know how to love and with a twinge of the steel knife in his pumping heart, Kuon wished he still didn’t. Love was a cruel twist of Fate and you either got it right or you wish you had never learned it at all. Before Kyoko had come so brilliantly back from the past, the only thing he had known was fighting and running, hiding behind a mask that shackled the blood soaked man he had been. Then she had come and brought with her his heart. 

She taught it love, nurtured it, gave it back.

And then promptly broke it.

When the mask split and fell away, there was one moment of numb bliss where Kuon felt nothing but in the span of a single second, thick metal chains slapped onto his wrists and jerked him into torrents of emotion flooding in his blood until all at once, he could feel _everything_.

It felt like going from cold to hot, being frozen and then thrown into a blazing flame, melted bare to the bone and left to burn. 

Deep within him, Kuon roared and thrashed against the shackles and the cold, metal chains as he fought to right himself in a world suddenly turned upside down. Just when, internally, he picked up the heavy, weighted binds to lock everything up – to lock up his feelings, Kuon, the memories of his past both good and bad, to lock up his painfully still beating heart – light soaked into him from his hand, wrapped in a soft, airy warmth that turned the shackles to rust and instantly dampened the blazing burn.

He didn’t blink but one minute a streak of light was falling down on a bloody, panting Kuon with shredded, iridescent wings and the next, dark pools of brown faded to a blank, empty black met with bright, light-filled gold and everything just _stopped_. The world, his heart, breath, the internal struggle of a Beast and a Fairy Prince. It all just slowly stopped in the wake of deep brown meeting light gold, the air in the middle of their gazes simmering like a mirage in intense heat both soft yet tangibly warped.

Like a mirage, she was sitting there next to him, legs bent at the knees off the leather seat and folded to the side with both of her small hands and thin fingers wrapped delicately over one of his white knuckled fists. Thin eyebrows drew up in concern over worry-darkened, round orbs and lips set in a small line and something in him rebelled against her warm, soothing touch that was bleeding a dappled light through the darkness of his soul, like the Sun’s rays casting light beneath the shifting waves of the ocean. 

Stop hoping, stop believing, stop _loving_ – the snake coiled in his belly, around a heart that pumped a beat of her name, hissed. The sharp stab of steel and hurt embedded deep in the tender flesh of his heart eased at the one simple look into her eyes. 

And when she spoke, her voice was lined with the words in her eyes, wavering and low. “Tsuruga-san?”

The cool leather of the silver car and the chilly breeze brushing in from the open car door grounded him and there was suddenly nothing between the broken, hurt man and the confused, concerned teenage girl save for a gentle touch and an icy wind. Tendrils of cool air rustled through their hair like a dramatic scene in a romantic movie, the moment right before everything changes, and Kuon, abstractedly, knew Lory would have been ecstatic. The eccentric, love-obsessed man would have killed to see this moment and probably would have had a frantic, love induced heart attack at the fact that his Number One Love-Me girl and his Number One – unofficial – Love-Me boy were stuck in a moment of time like in his favourite romantic movies.

And it would have been damn near perfect if the pieces of his mask had held together, if the glue of his resolve had been stronger, if she hadn’t, with her soft touch, pulled it from his face and let it crumble to dust in her dainty hands.

When gold eyes opened wide and her lower lip, shiny from lip gloss and oh so kissable, he knew his mask was gone, knew his emotions were playing out over his face, in his dark brown eyes, and he couldn’t be bothered to hide it. She stared, caught in the play of emotions that danced through his eyes, and he stared at her, drinking in the sight of her and the feel of her warm skin against the numb chill of his body. His fists wouldn’t unfurl, nails digging into his palms and tight grip slightly shaking. 

The knife slid from his heart and it broke, slowly, gently, in her tiny hands and the glow of her golden eyes.

Blood pooled from the vast, gaping wound in his tight chest, sweeping and burning through him to pool in his lower stomach, churning like an angry, fiery ocean in the pit of his belly. He was angry, he was hurt, he was _dying_. Swallowing past the thick, hot knotted lump in his throat, his adams apple bobbed harshly, but he couldn’t look away from her, from the gold of her eyes, from the way she looked up at him like she was finally seeing him for the first time. The slow, hot pain wasn’t sudden or harsh; it was just there, overflowing and painful.

As he stared into that molten gaze, unable to tear his own away from the golden light, he knew that, instead of a moth to a flame, he was a broken Fairy tempted by a gold that would turn him stone and shatter him into tiny, fragile pieces. She made him want to fly just as much as she kept him from actually doing it. The worst part was that he knew she didn’t mean to hurt him, she didn’t even know he had seen her and Fuwa, and, once again, he was struck with a deep regret that blasted through the stone: he was _hurting_ her, he was hurting Kyoko, _again_.

And though he said he didn’t care, shouldn’t care, wouldn’t…. _He did_.

Fingers, thin and tiny and curled around his much larger fist, spasmed, digging into his hand, and he watched her, never taking his dark, turbulent gaze from her face and watching her expression shift, seeing her concern melt into a twisted grimace of pain when the flicker of recognition streaked through her eyes. Kuon sat and watched it all, drank it all in like it was the last time he would ever see her.

Kyoko was one of the most expressive people he had ever met and though she could be highly oblivious and scarily dense, she was not, in anyway, stupid. Naive, yes. Childish? Yeah, sometimes. Oblivious wasn’t even a question. But she wasn’t associated with the word stupid and for a teenage girl, she understood the world a lot more than most adults. 

And she was never afraid to express it in waves across her face.

He forced himself to see the pain slip over her, the pain he caused, and he swallowed the suddenly hot, wet lump of ashy coal lodged in his throat. Causing her pain left a sour, bitter taste in his mouth that no amount of swallowing could push back. 

Tears, glassy and wet, floated into her gaze like rain clouds waiting to burst, feather-black lashes fluttering to hold back the flood shining in her eyes. Her eyebrows twisted together and over her wide, shiny orbs clouded with pain and concern and a small hint of fear, mouth slightly parted as if words were meant to pour from the tip of her tongue but nothing would come. 

What had he done? How could he hurt her like this? How could he hurt her _at all_?

Pain welled up in the corners of her eyes and fear darkened the gold with amber streaks, her wide, round eyes caught in the darkness of his gaze that threatened to swallow them both. 

Deep within his mind lie Kuon, on his knees with his head thrown back, blood knuckles resting on the ground as he looked helplessly up at the shaft of bright white light shifting through the dark canopy of his deep, cloudy thoughts. Mottled, warm light fought through the darkness, through the pain and the blood, through the ice and the bitterness, to reach him and all Kuon wanted to do was reach out, feel the light on his skin and grasp it in his hands. 

He reached out toward the broken shaft of light that filtered down, his fingers splayed, and froze. Dark red blood caked his fingers, the thin skin of his knuckles shredded almost to the bone with bluish-purple brusing ringed in a sickly yellow dusting his hand. The caked blood coated his fingers and his hand, trailing down his arm in splotches like a rash, and he brought his hand to his face, lifting up the other to stare at them side by side.

Dry, dark red blood coated his hands and his arms like paint that had sunk into his skin and his large hands trembled the longer he stared until his gaze lifted back to the bright light twirling in front of him like a bright dancer, bouncing and twisting through the darkness like it was a stage and the light was a fearless ballerina with nothing to lose.

Hopelessness weighed down on him, his shoulders dropping from the strain and arms now convulsing as he blinked down at the dried blood coating his hands. He fell back onto his haunches and tilted back his head, letting out a pain-filled roar that shook the edges of his mind, closing his eyes to the light as his fingers curled into his palms and the dried blood came to life, dripping from his hands and running in rivulets down his arms. It soaked into his skin and poured over him, running over his body, coming alive at the cry of helplessness. 

That cry echoed through the empty shell of his body, screamed from every pore of his skin and it was so loud, he was sure Kyoko could hear it through his gaze alone. 

And he knew what he was going to do, what he had to do, not just for him but for her. 

He had to let her go.

Her small fingers twitched as if by looking into his eyes she could see the shackles and the heavy chains wrapping around the motionless, broken Fairy Prince with the dead wings and the bloody hands. 

He turned his head away, breaking their locked gazes, and looking out into the busy Tokyo streets lined with cars, the city side-walks active with bustling, warmly wrapped bodies, and tall skyscrapers that towered into the early morning sky. 

And then he pulled away.

Slow and gentle, he disentangled his hand from her own until her grip loosened enough for his hand to fall away. He turned away from her, angled his body toward the car door and tucked both his hands into the sides of his heavy jacket, fingers digging grooves into the silk white shirt beneath to keep from reaching back to her. If he looked, he already knew what he would see so he didn’t look at her, keeping his gaze focused on the bustling city outside his window. Inane chatter of Tokyo’s citizens filtered through the glass and a chilly breeze rustled into the car, straight into his chest and wrapping like an icy vice around his heart.

He could feel it freezing, feel the cold numb spreading, and he welcomed it this time. If he felt nothing, then maybe this would be easier to let her go. 

A cold, yawning chasm stretched where his heart had been, his veins frozen and the blood within turned to ice, and he drew on all the power he had as an actor to keep his voice calm and steady. It grew eerily quiet both inside and outside the car as if everyone had stopped breathing the moment he opened his mouth, as if everything hinged on his next words.

His heart, cold and numb, clenched.

And that was all he allowed himself.

“Mogami-san has a job to do and if you don’t leave now, she will be late Yashiro.” When he finally found the words, his voice was steady but flat, lacking any warmth and the car dropped several degrees despite the heater blasting air into the back.

The silence remained.

It seemed the world was stuck in this moment, stuck between Fate and a broken man who had fought against it. A decision had to be made between the Gods and Kuon, and Kuon had already decided to let her go. All he had to do was get out of the car and never look back. He knew he could avoid her and disappear from her life, he knew if he wanted to, he could go to a place she couldn’t reach him, a place she would never think to look – as long as everyone kept their big mouths shut, including a meddling President. 

If all went well, if all went to Fate’s will, he would walk away from this car and never see Mogami, Kyoko again. What were the chances of them meeting a third time? Now that would be real, honest magick but Kuon had lost hope in things like that a long time ago. What he was about to do was final, it was the end, and he only sank deeper into the arms of the darkness that were waiting for him. 

Everything resumed as if a ‘play’ button had been pressed, a decision made in the span of a single breath where time seemed frozen and life had stopped.

Hesitantly, Yashiro shut Kyoko’s door, setting her bag by her feet that were tucked neatly together. It went unnoticed as the older man lingered, speaking in quiet, hushed tones to the elderly Okami that ran the Daruma-ya. This was his chance, this was the moment he had played on screen a thousand times: the moment where the romantic hero chooses love but Kuon knew it was nothing like it was on TV and, now knowing how real love felt, he wondered how no one had screamed fake at him. Before Kyoko, love was just an emotion for a job.

Now he had to believe it still meant nothing. 

His heart pumped steadily in his ears, the sound pounding in his skull as his dark brown gaze fell onto the black door handle. Taking a deep breath, he saw his chance when traffic came to a halt and he lifted a hand to grip the cold, smooth handle. The click of the door opening sounded like a gunshot in the silent space and he had to swallow thickly, gripping his escape tightly, before he could move. 

The handle moved easily in his large grip with no resistance to his decision, no fight against the tide or the current of Fate, and Kuon wondered if it had always been this way. How blind had he been, how stupid? He remembered, vaguely, as he shifted his long legs out into the brisk, chilly air, loafers clicking onto the asphalt, Kyoko’s ramblings on love and, as he ducked his head and stood from the car, he agreed with her. Love was just a foolish emotion that caused pain and destruction – what little light it granted wasn’t enough, it wasn’t enough to chase away ingrained shadows, it wasn’t enough to erase bloodied pasts.

Love wasn’t enough to shatter rusty, metal chains or break Fate’s bonds. 

Fighting love was like swimming against the currents of Fate until you are sucked beneath the waves, helpless, and you drown.

Kuon was drowning now but his lungs kept breathing, air kept filtering into his expanding muscles, his body kept moving and his blood, pumping slowly from a numb heart, kept flowing. Drowning while breathing above the waves of cold despair was like falling through an endless sky with no ground to hit and no end to the breathless fear. He longed to turn around, look at her, see her face and carry that with him and hope it was enough to keep him from coming back to her because no matter how much he fought her connection with Fuwa, she had him in an orbit he couldn’t escape, revolving around her just as easily.

His hand slipped from the handle to the edge of the metal frame but he paused, unable to slam it, his back turned as he fought against the Winter Sun beaming into his face. It felt cold, everything felt too cold. The air, the Sun, his heart – he was not be able to soak in any light or warmth and for a moment, he just stood there with his back to her, his bleeding heart left in the hands of his Princess. 

When the door shut, when it closed, he felt it in his gut. It was more than a car door. He was shutting more than just a metal door in a car and leaving behind a girl he couldn’t face. It was a finality, an ending, a door shutting that would lock him out forever – because he knew if he walked away now, if he shut that door and didn’t look back, he would never be allowed back in. He was meant to just disappear, to leave her there before he did or said something stupid, before she could reach out and her beautiful golden light could tempt him back like the Fairy he was into the warm, bright hope that burned in her eyes like a gold beacon. 

Kuon wanted to run, he wanted to fight or fuck or drink, hell he would have killed for a cigarette but he wouldn’t do any of those things because right now, right here, he was Tsuruga, Ren. 

And Tsuruga, Ren was the only thing holding Hizuri, Kuon together.

More than anything he wanted to turn around and tell her he loved her.

But he wouldn’t because he couldn’t.

So instead of turning around and telling her he loved her, he gathered up his resolve, his decision. Fingers dug into the metal of the car door slackened, his hold loosening as the door slid from his grip. Cold metal smoothly eased across the pads of his fingers as his hand fell to his side, fingertips grazing the door as he slowly pushed it closed. His fingers followed the metal behind him until, in the bright early morning, it closed with an inaudible thump. 

His soft, padded fingers stayed frozen to the cold metal for a few seconds, lingering, and as his feet turned to walk away and his hand pulled from the door back to his side, he never noticed the imprint his fingers left behind. Warmth battled cold metal, etching the last of his touch into the door he’d closed, leaving a reminder that he had been there. 

But then he stopped, facing sideways, watching the glint of sunlight off the colourful cars and, later, he wouldn’t be able to answer – if anyone had asked – why he did it. He could claim that his numb heart rebelled, rattling the chains and shaking his resolve just a fraction, that it beat harshly against the iron bars of his rib cage and he couldn’t control the involuntary action. Whatever he could say didn’t change what he did: cold wind brushing through his styled hair and chill seeping into his skin, he turned his head and he looked through the window.

He met her wide, frozen gaze through the glass and the metal, the confusion still lingering in the air of the car. 

His heart seized in his chest, surging tightly and he sucked in cold air harshly through his nose as his lungs constricted. She looked so _small_ , sitting there with her hands paused like they were still holding something but lacking whatever it had been, nothing left behind of what she had been holding onto. Where concern had been plastered across her face there was only wide-eyed, blank confusion, her eyebrows rose up into her bright orange spiky hair and twisted together. Analytical cogs were working behind the tiny dots of her pupils and he knew it wouldn’t take her long to know that something was wrong and react and Kuon had to disappear before she did or he would be caught in her golden glow again. 

His heart raised a mutiny in his body and thudded endlessly against it’s prison, beating in outrage even though it bled from the knife Kyoko had, inadvertently, stabbed him with. He was hot, he was cold, he was numb and empty but behind his eyes, a prickling ache throbbed and Kuon knew he was already falling back into her, into _hope_ , into the love he wished he could see light up her gold eyes. 

His cell was like a cold glass and metal rock in his pocket, heavy with the weight of his future, and the hand that shut the door on the only future that mattered to him slid into his pocket and long fingers wrapped tight around the cold future. The cell was cool and smooth and he wasn’t sure if he was holding it tightly to erase the warmth of her soft touch he could still feel burned into his skin or if he was trying to preserve her touch by pressing the glass cell into his palm. Grip tightening on the cell, he knew he should just walk away and call Ruto to pick him up, take him to Lory, but he stood there, rooted to the road and a silver car that held his heart.

The blank confusion plastered over her wasn’t what made him do it. It was a small insignificant gesture that pulled at his heart, jerking it straight out of his chest and into his throat. Small, shaky fingers lifted and pressed into the glass window and the fake smile he fed to the public softened in sympathy. She didn’t even know she’d done it, still frozen and blank, her head tilting to the side the barest of inches as she tried to figure out what was happening and why, her chest heaving as she sucked breath. The beginnings of fear misted over her trembling body as her mind worked out what her body already sensed.

It was like looking at a puppet who had her strings cut mid-motion and knew she was supposed to do something but _couldn’t_. 

Like a butterfly, his fingers would graze her wings and then she would flutter out of his reach and, his smile a soft, sad tilt of his lips, he feared that if he caught her in his large, rough grip, she would fall apart in his hands. 

If she wouldn’t be caught, it was time he stopped chasing her.

One hand clasping a cold cell trembled as the other raised, touching the tips of his fingers to her own. A thick pane of glass stood between them, icy cold against his fingers but warm on hers, and even though he knew she couldn’t hear him, his mouth parted and he whispered the words anyway hoping that when she looked back on all of this – _if_ she looked back, _if_ she cared to ever remember – she would be able to read the words that fell from his lips into the Winter morning, drifting as wafts of steam into the air and up into the clear, bright blue sky. 

“Goodbye, Kyoko-chan.”

And then he let her go.

It had started in a grove with a stream and the name ‘Kyoko-chan’ and he couldn’t bring himself to say goodbye to her in any other way. She would always be Kyoko-chan, the bright-eyed, fairytale girl with the black pigtails who saw him when no one else had, the girl who had given him his wings and taught him fly. Hot, tight pressure built up and he knew it was time to go. His fingers fell from the glass and he took one forced, empty step after another from the stunned girl he’d left in the car. The cell phone was like a bomb in his pocket, ticking loud and reminding him of what he was going to do, and when he stepped onto the curb of the side-walk, Yashiro was there to greet him, looking between him and the backseat of the car with deep concern.

Subdued and quiet, Kuon met his manager’s cautious, worried gaze with a calm smile and told him, “I’ll call Ruto to come and pick me up then go meet with Lory.” 

He paused and ignored the pain in his chest as he lowered his voice. “Take care of her.”

One of the only people foolhardy enough to trust him, his manager and his best friend, met his eyes, the Sun’s rays casting a sheen of light over his rectangular glasses and hiding the older man’s stare from his view but he gave a single, firm nod and it was enough.

Feeling sentimental, and knowing that he owed this man more than he could say really, Kuon raised his free hand and patted Yashiro’s shoulder in acquiescence before, sincerely, he uttered, “Thank you, Yukihito. Goodbye.”

Congenially, he raised his hand in goodbye as Yashiro blinked quickly like he was seeing him for the first time and Kuon had two heads. Unable to decipher this new ‘Tsuruga, Ren’ – was that even who he was any more? Did it matter? – Yashiro hesitated, looking at the car and the man standing with both his hands in his pockets like he wasn’t acting weirdly out of character. It only took a second for Yashiro’s business brain to kick in when he glanced down at his silver watch. Walking backwards toward the car, he looked up at Ren briefly before he opened the door, slid inside, and then the car was rolling forward into traffic with a rumble of tires.

He waited as the car blended effortlessly into the thousand of other cars dotting the streets, carrying with it the heart of a Fairy Prince and the tears of a Princess who had no idea why she suddenly couldn’t stop crying and a solemn manager who had no idea how to console her. His dark brown gaze never left that car until he couldn’t see it any more and he stood there in the middle of the side-walk, hands jammed into his pockets and looking for all the world like he was taking a leisurely stroll through downtown Tokyo.

But the shaking, icy hands curled into fists that the world couldn’t see said what no one else would ever know.

Taking a deep breath, cold air filled his lungs as warmth bloomed in his chest like he’d been hit by a gun, the bullet lodging inside the soft flesh of his heart. The warmth spread and burned and he turned, prepared to duck into the nearest alley to get away before he broke down completely and lost all reason. Kuon was too close to the surface and Ren’s mask was cracked, held together only by his rock hard resolve and the foolish, destructive plan formed in his brain. It was cowardly what he wanted to do and there was no way to know for certain it would even work – too many unknown variables like how Lory would react when he told him – but he had to try.

There weren’t many places Ren could go that Kyoko wouldn’t find him. When she wanted to do something, she would do it. And there was no doubt left in anyone’s mind that she _could_. He wanted to smile, remembering her, but his lips seemed frozen and part of the mask rather than his own facial structure. It would be a long, long time before he remembered how to smile again and he knew, without even second guessing, it would be Kyoko he would be thinking of. No matter where he went or where he was, she would never be far from his thoughts. 

And, if he played his cards right and didn’t make Lory _too_ mad, he might even still get to know how she was.

If Lory also didn’t murder him for his crazy idea.

Taking a couple of steps that felt like lead, he didn’t get far before a soft hand reached out and grabbed his forearm gently. Surprised and caught off guard, he looked down and met the warm, concerned gaze of the plump, compassionate Okami who ran the Daruma-ya. She was a soft woman, gentle and full of love that made anyone feel warm and welcomed, but her grip on his arm was firm and steady as she looked up at him, the wrinkles around her mouth deep in her frown. 

“Won’t you please come inside a moment out of the cold, Tsuruga-san? We have plenty of breakfast left, if you want any before you leave?”

He held up a large hand and bowed slightly from his waist, bending his torso towards her as he forced another fake smile as he told her, gently, his tone encased in the polite gratitude of the Japanese he’d spent years cultivating, “I greatly appreciate your kind offer but I won’t impose on you so early in the morning. I need to make a phone call to the President and it’s no trouble for him to pick me up. Thank you.”

He gave one final bow of his head, hair falling over his numb cheeks, before he lifted to his full height. Kuon, the venomous devil who saw weakness and struck, waited until she hesitated before he smiled wider and pulled from her grip, manoeuvring so her hand fell away loosely and he could take a tiny step towards the alley running between the Daruma-ya and the tall office building on the other side. 

The longer he smiled, the worse he felt, like a con man deceiving an elderly woman of all her hope. Kindness and compassion burned in her kind eyes and aged face, the hand that had rested on his arm pulling in to her chest and she looked so lost as if she wanted to say something but had no idea what to say that Ren almost accepted. But then he remembered that he was going to be a wanted man very soon if he didn’t call Lory before Yashiro and explain so, with one final bow that bent him completely at his waist in a straight line of the utmost respect, his spine lengthened and he nodded towards the dark alley. 

“I’ll make the call here and it won’t take our Boss very long to send someone.” His smile turned sheepish and he fingered a lock of his hair in embarrassment. “I’m too recognizable from the street and I’m afraid I don’t have a very good disguise.”

Seeing an opportunity to help him, relief washed over the Okami’s features, softening her wrinkles, as she set out for the front of the shop, tossing quietly over her shoulder, “I’ll bring you out some things, then, while you make your phone call. I’ll leave them by the back door, just pop in and grab them.”

He nodded and waited until she disappeared into the Daruma-ya before taking long strides into the cold darkness of the alley. His cell was clutched tightly in the pocket of his slacks so tight from the tension and as the very last of Kyoko’s warm touch faded from his skin, he fought back against the hopeless anger falling over him. He stalked the alley, pacing up and down in the shadows that washed over him, like an animal in a cage ready to run the first chance he got. Short, sharp breaths and with grit teeth, he knew he didn’t look much better than an animal. 

The cold shadows shielded him as prowled and stalked, his muscles tightening and his body tensing, until, finally, the coil snapped with a ‘pop’ that filled his ears and head with the rush and flow of his blood. 

When it snapped, so did he.

Both hands curled into tight fists, one wrapped around a cold cell and his skin itchy from the cold, he lifted his shaking fists and turned. Repeatedly, over and over, he slammed his tightly curled fists into the brick wall of the office building. Breathing harshly, fist after fist, he hit the wall until his muscles trembled. A numb ache filled his body as over and over, his fists sprayed blood into the air and the brick cracked from repeated force. He hit the wall until the skin of his knuckles was as ripped and torn open as his burning chest, he kept hitting until blood trailed warmly down his arms from his fists, he didn’t stop even when his bones pounded beneath his skin.

He only stopped when his arms, trembling and tingling sharply, fell to his sides, his chest heaving out breathless streams of steam into the chilly air. Blood pumped into his head, filling his ears with a muted thrum as he turned, slamming his back into the brick and sliding down slowly to the ground with a low growl. Even on the ground, one foot stretched out and the other bent at the knee, he couldn’t uncurl his bloody, bruised fists and his breath came in fast, jerky inhales. His lungs burned, his body trembled with adrenaline and violence, and he wanted to taste more than brick against the skin of his knuckles: he wanted bones and flesh and blood.

He wanted to hurt someone, hit them until the pain inside of him faded in the thrall of violent apathy, until he was drowning in someone else’s blood and in the shattering of someone else’s bones. Bloody and battered beyond recognition, his fisted hands trembled in the safety of his lap as the cold brick behind him seeped through his jacket and his shirt into his skin. Panting, his muscles shook from the tension slithering through his body. 

What he wouldn’t do for a smoke and some Jack Daniels and a warm, willing body to lose himself in. 

But that was something _Kuon_ would do. 

Not Tsuruga, Ren.

Tsuruga, Ren could only break his fists against brick in the darkness of a small, cold alley and face the loss he was shoving back until he couldn’t stop it any more. 

A buzzing vibration in his tightly clenched left hand drew his blank gaze down to the smooth cell still in his grasp. Well, he’d forgotten his phone was in his hand and he blinked, awareness dawning slowly at the thin cracks lining the lit up screen. A notification. A text. With the ease and silence of a man who knows better than to make a sound of pain, he unfurled his left hand and, with trembling fingers, smeared blood across the front screen when he unlocked it and clicked the pop-up text.

Kijima. He didn’t read the rest, cancelled out of the text and stared down at the brightly lit screen. He knew what he had to do but his head was weightless from the thump of blood pumping around his skull and his hands throbbed in sharp agony dulled by numb apathy. Throat tightening, he swallowed thickly and took a deep breath, his stomach tossing as he fought back the churning tingles of nausea. 

Cold, wary trepidation and the emptiness of numb acceptance moved his fingers to the phone icon at the bottom of the screen and pressed the speed dial he knew by heart. 

Gently, his head fell back to the brick and he closed his eyes, welcoming the spots dancing through the darkness as each ring stirred weariness through his rushing blood. 

When the line clicked and the ringing stopped, his stomach flipped and he grit his teeth, choking down everything he wanted to say and the nausea jumped in his gut but he never got a chance to say anything. 

_“You stupid idiot. You are, by definition, an idiot, Kuon. Give me one good reason, **one** , why I shouldn’t fire you?”_

The gruff voice on the other end of the line sounded irate, if not a bit harsh, but Kuon’s shoulders dropped at the hint of concern hidden behind the spoken words. Takarada, Lory was a master of his emotions and the fact that Kuon had caused him worry – that was all he had ever done, really – eased the tension off of him a bit, long enough to take deep breaths and long enough for Lory to speak again, the harshness absent from his tone. 

Instead of reprimand and scolding, Lory’s voice was tender, gentle and kind, full of affection and concern for the man he loved just as much as he loved Kuon’s parents. _“Ruto is on his way. I trust you can keep yourself out of trouble for that long.”_

Eyes closed, Kuon was unaware of anything but the cool glass pressed to his ear and the stabbing, burning pain registering in his brain. 

“I haven’t told you where I am, Boss, so Ruto doesn’t know where to pick me up.”

An old conversation back when Kuon was just a boy, before bloody pasts and dead friends and blood that tried to drown him in his sleep, danced idly through the darkness of his vision. The image of the memory was blurry and hazy like seeing it through the wrong lenses on glasses that didn’t fit right but a single part of the conversation was bright and clear in little Kuon’s mind, a joke between his Dad and Lory that he remembered still to this day.

Not much Lory did surprised Kuon. He had grown up with the man as a second father when he’d fled home and an endearing Uncle long before that but that small joke suddenly made far too much sense and he spoke without thinking until the words were already there, spilled into the chilly morning air in bursts of steam. 

“….You seriously do have trackers in LME phones….”

There was a deep inhale and, absently, Kuon realized Lory must be smoking one of his cigars and he had the sudden urge to be held by the man who had saved him that always smelled like strong musk and the bitter scent of tobacco. 

A soft snort followed a lengthy blow of the cigar smoke before Lory spoke again. _“Someone has to keep an eye on all of you at all times or else who knows what trouble you all would get yourselves into. Besides, what do you think I do in my office all day for entertainment?”_

It was funny, laughable, and Kuon’s lips twitched. _“Oh, I don’t know, Boss. Maybe actually do your job and **work**?”_

_“Cheeky boy.”_ The words were drawn out but Kuon heard the smirk as if he were staring right into Lory’s narrow but kind eyes, black moustache curved with the curl of his smirk, smoke trailing from a thick, brown cigar that rested in one hand. 

But he knew that if he were standing in front of him, there would be nothing but disappointment in his eyes and the smile fell from his lips before it could even form. 

Disappointment. Mutant. Half-breed. Monster. 

Was that all he could be? Was that all that defined him? He’d run from his home, left it all behind, but it still chased him down, fathomless and bleak like a thick black cloud. No matter how far he ran the darkness was always right behind him, chased by his past and haunted by the bloody waves, thick and sticky at his feet. The red waves lapped at him and crawled coldly up his body like a suit, full of despair and darkness and cold, wet blood that hardened around him and sealed him in everything he was running from but couldn’t escape. 

The time for running was over. There was no way to escape, no where he could go where the monster inside of him couldn’t find him so all that was left was to face it.

It was time to stop, turn around, and run back. 

The only option left was to run through the thick, tangle of shadows, sticky waves of blood, and the roaring beast within himself. 

He had to do it. 

For _her_.

He must have made a sound unintentionally at the thought of her and he tried to smooth it over with a laugh or with something Tsuruga, Ren would say but all that came out was a shaky exhale. It was hard to breath with his chest tight and his lungs constricted, pulled inward. His swallow was audible with the wet saliva dotting the crevices of his mouth, his tongue darting out. Touching his bottom lip was like licking a frozen popsicle and a shiver travelled through him. Eyes cracking open forced him to blink repeatedly as the world around him blurred and twisted together, black dancing with white spots across his vision.

Bright blue swirled above him and the nausea in his belly curdled, stomping around like an irate child as pain shot from his broken hands straight into his too tight chest. 

Would this pain ever end? How much more did he have to suffer? How much farther could he fall before he broke?

Lory answered him, his voice soft and overflowing with sorrow and grief, a lesson the older man had learned when he lost his wife. _“Love hurts sometimes, Kuon. It’s a beautiful, wonderful thing and it needs to be cherished, nurtured. Love needs to **grow**.”_

There was a small pause and if Lory’s voice was hoarse but warm and rich with memories, Kuon didn’t mention it. _“But no matter how much you give to it, it hurts. Always. When you love someone, when you open yourself up to the beauty and power of it, when you stroke it like the petals of a rose….You forget that it has thorns. It’s beautiful and amazing and something you will never forget. But it hurts and sometimes, no matter what you do, you can’t stop it.”_

A deep breath and a solemn, pain-filled pause then, quietly, breaking through the cold bitterness lodged in his chest, _“But only you, Kuon, can decide if the thorns are worth the rose.”_

His lips trembled in the chilly dampness of the alley and they parted, two soft petals of pink tainted a deep red from the cold to speak but he found he couldn’t. Over and over, like the action of his fists slamming into brick, he tried to speak, tried to repeat the atrocity of crunching Kyoko’s heart in his large, rough, bloody hands, but nothing came out through his bruised lips and the silent presence through the cold, cracked glass of his cell remained quietly grim.

Then, as if speaking to a small child, slow and roughly lined with emotion, came Lory’s deep baritone rumbling through the numb haze. _“It’s okay to be in pain, it’s okay to hurt. You won’t cry, you stubborn fool, but it’s okay to want to.”_

The world was still a blur of pale blue sky, cold shadows of a dark alley, and the stone of the Daruma-ya wall of the alley across from him. Spots of colour and dots of black blurred his vision in a swirling kaleidoscope of colours, swirling rapidly in a circular drain until it was all smashed together, his eyes half-open and staring at the wall across from him wondering why Lory was talking about crying. He couldn’t remember the last time he had shed tears. Monsters didn’t shed tears andd he was far from human, far from the Prince Kyoko still, miraculously and unbelievably, saw him as.

Princes didn’t break Princesses hearts and walk away, they didn’t leave behind the woman they loved with nothing but her tender, beautiful heart in her hands. Princes didn’t do those things….

But monsters did.

Quiet, steady breathing filtered through his right ear where the icy glass of his cell was still shakily pressed to his head, grounding him to the one person who had been his rock in a country, in a world, where the Prince was a Beast covered in scars and blood, shadows nipping at his heels of memories long past that screamed murderer and wrought his nights with hellish dreams of his best friend’s pale and hollow face. Somewhere deep within the shell of Tsuruga, Ren, Kuon fought hard against the steel shackles, rattling the chains and desperate to fight Fate with everything he had. A part of him refused to give in and Kuon had to blink to clear the warm sting building across his eyes, wet and hot and leaving behind a burning ache.

Princes didn’t cry.

But oh: monsters did.

Tears built warm and hot behind his empty brown eyes, stinging wetly and stubbornly but they didn’t dare fall. They coalesced, full of his pain and glossing over the brown of his gaze in a wet, shiny sheen. He lifted up his broken hand soaked and stained red with blood and covered his face, smearing the cooled red wetness over his face, hiding the proof of his pain. There were no huge, gasping sobs, no heaving cries or sorrowful grunts, no tears fell though they brightened over his irises like a curtain, but Kuon still mourned everything he had just lost, in his past up until the moment he walked away and left behind the woman he loved.

Most of all, Kuon despaired of the broken bond he’d shattered with his own two hands.

Lory’s voice came back and broke through the flood of racking pain in a rough tremble, as if he could sense Kuon’s anguish and his inner thoughts. He almost didn’t doubt that he could. _“You’ll be okay, Kuon. You’ll be okay. Ruto is almost there. Do you have a disguise? I can’t imagine you do.”_ Ah. There was the put-out grumbling. It continued. _“You’re never prepared for these situations, for the inevitable. How many times have I told you emotions are never predictable and to be prepared?”_

The low grumbling immediately melted into a stricter, rougher scold and this time, the twitch of his lips stayed. _“But noooooo, never listen to the man who helped raise you, you ungrateful brat. It’s not like I’m your boss or the President of LME or your parental guardian or anything. Not like I know anything. At all.”_

Despite how tight his cheeks felt and how unnatural it felt on his face, how wrong, his smile still widened and he was relieved to hear the steadiness of his voice if not a bit surprised. “You’re also a kidnapper according to some.”

Thus the grumbling re-emerges. _“How could Julie say that? Listen, what your mother calls me has nothing to do with you. You’re the one in trouble, don’t distract me. I’m not that old yet, Kuon. You’ll be fine.”_

He would be fine, he knew he would be, because tomorrow Tsuruga, Ren would be dead. Tomorrow, Tsuruga, Ren would be gone.

His cold, wet hand fell away from his face as he stared up at the wall across from him and tried to steady his wayward vision. Tumbling and spiralling colours all flooded together and then suddenly cleared, the bright intensity of the morning sky fighting the shadows of the alley. Brown eyes sore and heart shredded, he stared at the stony wall of the Daruma-ya until he could see the little spiky dots of uneven concrete. 

He had to tell Lory, had to say something to break the calm that had fallen between them. And he knew, knowing Lory as well as he did, that the older man knew it was coming. Love hurts, he thought sardonically, because he was about to hurt someone else he loved.

He was a thorny rose with no petals, a mutated flower that was grotesque and inhuman. All he knew how to do was hurt those he loved. Lory, his parents, sweet Kyoko, Yashiro….Like a morbid body count, the weight of the pain he inflicted was like a disease. _He_ was a disease and he had to leave to protect her from himself.

His smile slowly peeled back until it was a thin line, he licked his cold, dry lips, and then he spoke through the hard, steel ball in his throat. “I’m sorry for always causing you so much trouble, Boss. You won’t have to worry about it any more. About me.”

What he was saying sounded wrong even to his own ears so the sharp inhale over the phone alerted him it sounded wrong to Lory, too. Gathering his thoughts, he spoke again, a dark serene clarity falling over him and he uttered the steel words stuck in his throat. “I’m going home. To America. I’m leaving Tsuruga, Ren in Japan.”

A thick heaviness fell over the line as both men struggled to wade through the sorrow and the loss, through the pain lodged in their hearts. 

And all Lory could say when he found his breathless, shaky voice was, _“I guess this is goodbye for now, then, Kuon.”_

There was a small click followed by the loud, incessant dial tone alerting him that Lory had hung up and he was alone. Just like when he was a boy, he had reached too high and his wings had been torn before he could reach the Sun. Shakily, his hand fell to his lap, the cell phone screen lit up and staring up at him with the bold words ‘Call Ended’ plastered across the top and a picture Kuon had snuck of Lory. It was his favourite and it was one he had kept through all the phones he had been given by the agency. He could still remember the day he took it.

A broken, damaged boy of seventeen, up in LME’s top floors and Lory’s suite, where his secret remained ingrained into the extravagant walls and beautiful décor. Up in the highest floors was a single room that had been his own for many years. He chuckled silently in the alley, the warmth of the memories chasing away the biting cold of Winter. 

He’d studied Japanese customs, the people and it’s culture, and the language in this room. Many nights and days had passed in this room, in the highest floor of LME, and it was where, ultimately, Tsuruga, Ren had been born. But it was also the room where his nightmares haunted him the most and it was the room he stared at a phone, hours on end, missing parents he had no idea how to talk to. It was where a boy became a man, where a mask was forged and a heart was hidden away. 

And it was also where he remembered Kyoko the most, in his darkest moments, in that bright and shiny room.

With red wallpaper, gold trim, and wonderful, beautiful, and most definitely strange and foreign décor, it was where he managed – and it was also the only time he had ever managed to do so – to snap the hidden photo on his phone that stared up at him now, years later, from an ended call. 

He remembered that moment so well as if it had happened hours ago instead of when he was seventeen and still a lonely, angry teenager, lost in despair and devoid of hope. An empty shell wandering the Earth with no purpose – though, now, with a heavy heart, he could admit his purpose had always been Kyoko, always would be her, too. With a very slight, unnoticeable wince, he uncurled his fingers from the phone as much as he could, his jaw tightening and teeth grinding at the white hot rush that shot through him.

The picture was clear now and his shoulders dropped, head lolling back gently as he looked at his one glory over his eccentric uncle.

A night full of hellish dreams and memories of a past that still clung to him in his shadow were in his narrow, unfocused brown eyes as he sat up in the large bed Lory had gotten for him – it was in his apartment now in Tokyo, one of the things he’d kept from his room, the grey and black King sized bed so out of place in the gold and red. Knees pulled up to his chest, on his side with the covers bunched down to his ankles, the tall, thin boy was curled up on the bed that was way too vast and empty.

But he wasn’t alone. 

Sitting up against the black steel headboard was Lory, legs straight out and hands clasped in his lap. As usual, he was dressed in something odd, eccentric, and definitely not normal for any sane person let alone a Japanese man. Kuon was reminded, sitting in that dark alley, just like he was when he was a teen and curled up next to his uncle’s warm, solid body, of a genie. It made sense. Lory granted wishes and he was strange. And though he was happy, always somehow smiling and joking, usually at Kuon’s expense, sorrow lined his grey orbs and the wrinkles of laughter and joy emanated a sort of loss. 

When he thought no one was looking, when Kuon looked at his Uncle Lory the most, one half of his lips would be lifted but it wasn’t a happy smile. Grey clouds, almost black, darkened his Uncle’s eyes and the lift of his lips was profoundly twisted with complicated, complex emotions all tangled together like a ball of yarn. Grief etched the corner of his eyes while the tall man seemed to sink into himself, into the pool of endless despair and the empty crevices that loss carved into his heart. 

Made of sheer and mostly see-through – which Kuon knew would have flustered everyone in LME – Lory was garbed in sheer cloth from head to toe. Wrapped around his entire head was a coil of black cotton cloth in the shape of a turban with two black tassels hanging from the back and over one of Lory’s bare shoulders. The strings of the tassels were thin but plentiful and splayed out over Lory’s skin like shadowy veins. Four silver beads connected the tassels to the turban that was wrapped around Lory’s head and his neck, the cloth bunched up beneath his stubbled jaw.

Shiny silver cuffs dangled loosely over his wrists lying in his lap with silver chain links that twisted around the sheer black cloth with silver trim. The sleeves were loose around Lory’s biceps and his forearms but snapped tight with an elastic band at his wrists and on his upper arms. Broad chest bare and on display, Kuon smiled at the sheer audacity of the man frozen in the photo. Only Takarada, Lory had the balls to walk around his own agency half naked in an Arabian genie costume that was sheer and silky, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. 

Hanging low on his hips, the band of the pants pressed snugly into Lory’s waist but then hung loose down to his ankles where the harem pants tightened and another set of silver dangles were cuffed above his bare feet. Without even thinking twice, Kuon knew, just as surely as the teen boy curled up on the bed, that Lory had not only walked bare foot around his own company – probably shouting and causing more mayhem and more chaos than easing it – but probably had a whole assortment of Arabian tapestries, camels, and, if he was feeling truly adventurous, adjusted the heat settings to an acceptable desert standard while keeping the employees in mind along with sand he had probably scattered around.

His Uncle took everything to the extreme and extraordinary but he was indubitably the best at recognizing and grooming talent. He was a master at the game and to this day, to the present where Kuon was sitting on the cold, hard ground and a gnawing void gaping in his chest where his heart should be, Takarada, Lory was both feared and respected by other agencies, directors, and talents alike. The man was fiercely protective over his employees down to even the cleaning crew and no one dared step wrong on the genie’s toes. 

As luck would have it, he was also very protective over Kuon and when the young teen had awoken in a damp sweat, icy tremors racing down his spine with a scream perched on his dry lips and burning throat, Lory was there, sitting in that large bed with his hands clasped. Grey orbs stared empathetically down at him, bright and owlish in the early morning hours and Kuon had stared back, lost and shaking, mouth parted and sucking in air through a mouth as dry as a desert and a tongue as rough as sandpaper. 

His throat ached and burned, prickled with tiny stabs of pain, and his eyes: shiny green tainted a ruddy red, the blood of his past trickling into the green of his gaze. He knew, Lory always knew without Kuon having to say a word. A quiet understanding passed through Lory’s eyes and then he turned away, settling into the metal headboard and shifting his shoulders, staring at the wall opposite the king-sized bed. Kuon studied the profile of the man he’d known as his Uncle for as long as he could remember. This was the man who always, never failed, to bring him presents on Christmases and birthdays, the man who called everyday to speak to him and his Dad and banter with his Mom. 

Besides his Dad, little Kuon had adored Lory and all the fantastic stories the man would spin for him, his attire always striking him as fondly humorous. Just crazy Uncle Lory who is one day a snake charmer and the next an Amazonian tribal warrior. 

It was no surprise to see him in the genie costume and seventeen Kuon had paid it no mind but a single glance and an absent thought of that being rather tame for Lory – until he found out that morning, later on, about the camels roaming around freely, the dusting of golden sand, and the shot-down idea of Lory wanting to make LME look like the pyramids of Giza – in his mind lost to the turbulent crash of emotions racing through his blood.

Instead, he focused on the solidity and familiar comfort of the man lying on the bed next to him, taking deep, shaky inhales to calm his breathing. 

Lory had, for his age to which he constantly grumbled when Kuon reminded him that he was, in fact, old, aged well and lost none of his charm or looks that drew others’ attention. He didn’t need flashy costumes or wild, crazy plans. His mere presence in a room drew people to him, his nature and the aura around him welcoming, warm and friendly. Ever since he was little, Kuon had wanted to be as calm – as calm as a 40-year old something man wearing a juggler outfit juggling swords instead of rubber balls that had nearly sent his Mom into a panic – as Lory, as strong and persuasive. Having the gift to connect with people was something Kuon had struggled with, being born to a life he hadn’t chosen of power and fame. 

The planes of Lory’s face were sharp and angled, carved and prominent beneath the skin of his face. Diamond-shaped facial structure highlighted by a long, square chin, wide thin eyes wrinkled heavily at the corners near the long bridge of his nose. Small, wide eyebrows settled low over grey eyes heavy with memories and darkened with an undefinable shadow of a grief that still hung over him like a dark cloud. A Zorro-like moustache hovered beneath his nose, bare in the middle, short and thinly haired. Curving above his forehead like the mane of a lion, earthy brown hair swept upwards into a spiky array spread up like a peacock’s tail.

Two loose tendrils drooped on each side over his grey orbs, shielding his sometimes intense stare and masking the somewhat seriousness of his gaze. The rest of his brown hair was brushed down and back though most of it was sticking up at odd angles, signalling he’d been lying there for a while. Guilt had streaked through Kuon and as he traced patterns in the transparent material of Lory’s outfit, he wanted to assure him he was okay. Just for once, he didn’t want to be a burden or a problem child. 

But when he looked up, prepared to banter off any excuse to get Lory to leave him alone, a surprised, amused huff left his open mouth and his lips twitched upwards at the corners. 

In the span of the few minutes Kuon had calmed his breathing and traced patterns with his dark brown pools in the sheer black costume, Lory had lost his fight with sleep and succumbed to his Fate in a rather undignified way. 

Breathy snorts and grumbling snores fell from his gaping mouth, head lolled back to the headboard. Staring at the Uncle who, despite his preference in clothing, had always been rather dignified, Kuon was startled by the snoring heap relaxed into his bed. And as it was, though he’d begun to improve from the ‘bad boy’ he had been before, impish impulses still rocketed through him on an occasion. 

This was one of those moments.

Devilish smile twisting his lips, Kuon had reached beneath the silky black pillow for his cell phone and gently shifted his body closer until he was pressed snugly into Lory’s side. Still curled up into a human ball, he turned and twisted from his waist so his bare back pressed into the cool sheets, mischievous smile in place. One lanky arm reached up, the cell’s front camera facing them both and right as he snapped the photo, he winked. 

When he brought the phone down, he scrolled through his apps until he found his gallery and clicked the little picture frame icon. He didn’t have many photos and most of them were locked. Only he could see them so he clicked on the only one without a lock symbol and then had to cover his mouth with his free hand to keep from bursting into boyish laughter. 

Oh he was so dead if Lory ever found out about this.

That picture was definitely blackmail and Kuon intended to make full use of it. With a few taps of his fingers, he locked the photo because he would be damned if Lory ever found out and deleted it. It took him a couple of minutes to upload it to Google Photos, lock it, and take another look with a wide, half-grin and bright green orbs. Pushing a button on the side, his phone screen instantly goes black and a wide yawn nearly breaks his jaw as he slides the cell back beneath his pillow. Blinking, slow and half-lidded, another yawn pools moisture in his mouth and tears build at the corners of his eyes. His head falls between the silky pillow and Lory’s warm arm, eyes fluttering as sleep washes calmingly over him. 

Early rays of dawn splash across the fluffy black carpet, the gold trim sparkling in the early morning light. As Kuon’s eyes closed, waves of sleep pulling him away from the shore of existence, and he faded to the beckoning call of sleep, it was with a smile that the shadows couldn’t touch and the memory of a warm, comforting hand ruffling his hair as he drifted away. 

Bittersweet nostalgia welled up like a gurgling, bubbling fountain as the memories assaulted him. Life had been bleak back then and Kuon had missed his parents more than he could say but whenever he would wander to the phone or pick up his cell, all he could see was the disappointed desperation when they looked at him or the troubled smiles that did nothing to hide the dark bags under their eyes or the strain that weighed down on them. He would see the burden he caused them in the way they didn’t know how to help him and he would just turn away before he could dial their number, afraid that even if he did call, they wouldn’t pick up.

And he wasn’t sure he could bear knowing that they wouldn’t.

“Ren.”

The deep, low timbre was recognizable and familiar and he knew what he would find before he turned his head. He looked over at Lory’s right hand man with a slow twist of his head, hands limp with a burn that is shooting through his bones, one leg bent at the knee and the other laid out limply. 

Their gazes met somewhere in the middle of Kuon examining Ruto’s butler uniform and the throbbing pounding in his temples. 

He blinked a few times before he mumbled, “Kuon. It’s Kuon. Ren….Ren will be dead tomorrow.”

Kuon’s gaze instantly turned back to his hands and he couldn’t stop his flinch at the dark, morbid thought that another life was being ended by him. Apparently it wasn’t bad enough his best friend died because of him but now he was destroying _himself_ by himself. 

Out the corner of his eyes, he saw Ruto bend at the waist in a bow, one arm crossed over his middle and the other straight by his side as he quietly intoned, “There is a car out front, Kuon. Lory was….”

When Ruto paused, Kuon glanced up and raised an eyebrow. “He was Lory?”

“He was worried.” Ruto instantly corrected.

A memory jumped from the clogged recesses of his brain and he jerked his head towards the back door of the Daruma-ya restaurant, hissing when his head rebelled against the motion and a thick stab of nausea pierced his stomach. “The Okami left me a disguise right by the door. That should do until we can get to the car. Would you mind grabbing it for me?”

Ruto rose from his bow and tilted his head in acquiescence. When Ruto moved, his steps were silent, the shiny black shoes making no sound as the butler moved to the door covered in shadows as if he was a moving shadow himself. As Ruto slowly pushed the door open and bent to pick up what must be Kuon’s disguise, the tall man took a deep breath to steady himself as he slid his back up the hard brick. Using his bent knee, he shifted his leg until his knee and shin pressed into the cold concrete of the alley, his other leg bending beneath his body until both of his knees were pressed into the ground.

He pulled away from the brick so his legs were holding him up, uselessly swollen hands pulled into his stomach to hide the grotesque blood and bruised flesh. When he looked up, eyes narrowing at the quick, painful lances stabbing his temples, Ruto was standing before him, a silent sentry guarding him and holding in both of his hands a pile of things Kuon couldn’t make out from the ground. 

Steeling himself, he drew on the numb pulse from the empty void to drown out the harsh shots of cold pain, Kuon took a breath and held it, the muscles of his upper thighs and his back growing taut. When he slowly rose to his feet and stood, it was agonizing. Muscles pulled tight like tense rubber bands about to snap, swollen with tension, it took everything Kuon had to stay on his feet and not fall back to the ground. His gaze fell to what Ruto was holding, distracting him from a rush of dizziness slamming into him. 

Well, it was a disguise and it would probably work so Kuon made a note to at least have Lory compensate and thank the Daruma-ya couple later. 

Before he could reach out and take the gathered assortment of his new disguise, Ruto shook his head. 

“With your injuries, it would be best to allow me.”

Conceding defeat to the monstrous swirl of nauseating dizziness in his brain, he clutched the cell to his palm and gave a single nod. Dressing in a dark alley in the middle of Winter right in the heart of Tokyo had never been something Kuon thought he would do but there he was, ducking his head as Ruto adjusted his thick dyed hair and slid a white visor hat so the lip covered his face. Strands and flyaway locks of his hair brushed to the sides over the strap of the visor and Ruto’s slender fingers tickled the loose hair to cover his ears and most of the side of his face.

His throw over jacket was next. He rolled his shoulders and the jacket tumbled off, sliding to the crook of his elbows. Ruto slipped behind him and Kuon, hesitant and cautious of his wounded hands, slowly held them to the side, twisted at an angle so his shoulders were back and his arms were slightly behind him. The cotton rolled seamlessly off his silken dress shirt as Ruto carefully pulled it off of his broad frame. A second passed and before the chill could crawl through his shirt, goosebumps raising on the skin of his arms, a softer and thicker fabric barricaded him from the cold. 

Bending at his knees, Ruto adjusted the pure white, button-up coat over his thick shoulders and tugged the clothing so it fit better over his body, smoothing out wrinkles and checking seams. Breathing through his nose and out of his mouth in a puff of steam, Kuon unlocked the joints of his knees and rose, the jacket falling against him. It had a thick white collar that Ruto had raised and the flaps tickled his jaw but it hid most of his face without drawing attention. For all the public would know, he was just a tall foreigner with a collar pulled up to battle the Wintery frost.

They shared a look and without a single word, Ruto moved forward and slid the shiny white buttons through the loops. The front ended at his waist but the back fell to his knees in a trench-coat style and curved around the sides of his legs. Despite the frosty morning, the trench coat-jacket was thick and his body heat bounced around like a rubber ball, moulding into the cloth before radiating back into his body. 

Ruto held up the last of his disguise and Kuon hissed through his teeth. A pair of waterproof and heavy-duty grey gloves. He wanted to protest and claim he didn’t need them but he looked down at his massacred fingers and shredded skin of his hands. This was karma for breaking Kyoko’s heart and hurting her and if that was the price he had to pay, he would pay it. Gaze softening, he looked up to meet Ruto’s imploring, intense stare and nodded.

The butler stepped forward and Kuon lifted up his shaking hands. A spotted beam of light, a pinch of warmth in his frozen hands, tickled his aching flesh. Fire peeled through his skin, flooding his blood with a burning rush and jolts of agony, skin stinging and bone screaming, as Ruto shifted Kuon’s hands into the gloves, one by one. His teeth slammed together, grinding harshly and making white flashes dust across his vision. Everything hurt but nothing hurt more, not even his destroyed hands, than his heart.

He fought pain with pain. He set himself aflame with the memory of Kyoko’s confused apprehension, fighting through the wet, sour ball of bile rising in his throat and the sway to pass out. White and black tangled together, spots dancing through his mind’s eye and blinding him until he couldn’t see anything past the agony ripping him apart from the inside out. 

The world shifted around him in pulses of light and sound, his body tingling but Kuon couldn’t feel anything. His consciousness bobbed and fought against the waves of colour that sucked him backward. It almost felt like the pull of floating above water, the dip and bob of awareness dusting him then rushing away giggling like a playful child. Kuon was tempted to chase it, to sink further into the soothing, floating feeling but then something vibrated, sending a buzz through his arm and into one of his mutilated hands, and he was harshly jerked from the peaceful edge of unconsciousness.

Blinking wildly, his head darted around, unable to comprehend where he was but the sudden jerking of his head caused his stomach to finally succumb. His gut clutched hard, the acidic burn of vomit and nausea shooting into his throat. Sucking in a harsh breath, throat tightening, he bent over from his waist, and expelled the meagre breakfast he’d eaten that morning. His body was trembling violently and shivers raced down his spine, the thin hairs on the back of his neck rising in protest as he panted through the crash of nausea that hung at the vestiges of his stomach.

Throat stinging and mouth coated in a slimy, bitter taste from vomiting, Kuon waited until his stomach stopped twisting into knots and the nausea ebbed slightly before he lifted his gaze to see where he was. Swallowing thickly past the acidic burn in his mouth and nose, he breathed in the rich, mildly earthy smell of leather. A low, light heat vibrated the air, tickling his now runny nose and easing his roiling belly. 

A car. He was in a car, probably one of Lory’s he thought dully. Ruto was there, kneeling in front of him with a wicker basket at his feet and Kuon was thankful for the man’s aloofness. What he didn’t need was mindless chatter or sympathetic comfort. As the nausea finally settled and he could breathe normally, Kuon leant back into the smooth, shiny black leather of the car and looked over at Ruto from beneath his visor with a wry smile.

“Thank you.”

The man bowed his head and, gripping the wicker basket under one arm, moved to open the car door he must have lugged Kuon’s tall frame into, directed his dark eyes towards something in Kuon’s lap as he told him, “There is no need for thanks, Kuon. You walked here on your own and I only helped you climb inside. What woke you was that.”

_That_ being Kuon’s cell that nestled in one of his gloved hands. He blinked down at it, unsure of when it had left him to put on the gloves and how it had returned. Intent on figuring that out, he lifted his gaze and opened his mouth to ask Lory’s aide but immediately snorted out a laugh before leaning his head back into the leather seat when his befuddled gaze met nothing but air. The warm heat sunk over him, relaxing his body and loosening all the tension in his muscles until he thought he might melt and become one with the car. His glazed brown eyes blinked up at the soft ceiling of the extravagant limousine he knew he was in. 

All of Lory’s special LME limos – the normal ones excluding the hummers and the atrocious bright pink or yellow demons the man had had constructed – were sleek black, inside and out, long and spacious with plenty of elbow room, a double flat-screened TV facing both sides of the interior, and to Kuon’s right was the thick black glass that separated him from the driver. Without even looking Kuon knew where the alcohol was, that the seats reclined, and for some unfathomable reason he also knew that this limo hosted a disco ball that would replace the TV’s. 

Sometime during his surprise and confusion at his phone ending up back in his hands Ruto had slipped quietly out and as Kuon’s gaze fell back to his phone, the limo rumbled to life signalling where the man had gone. 

He debated what to do, where to go from here now that he was safe from the public, and just as he raised a throbbing hand and pulled the visor from his head, his cell buzzed in in a long, slow vibration. Dark brown orbs looked at the cell, dropping the visor hat on the seat next to him, and his eyebrows furrowed. 

Private caller? No one ever called him on a blocked number and everyone that _did_ call him, everyone who had his number, were never restricted. There was no way a crazy fan or someone unknown could have gotten his number so all that left was….

He stared at the flashing, blinking private number and his chest constricted, panic fluttering and fingers itching to press the bright green button. 

It would be so easy to answer, to press that little green phone and just to just _hear_ that voice would be enough.

He let it ring until it stopped, his screen fading to black, and a part of him faded with it.

The screen lit up again, vibrating a plea for him to answer.

Same caller. It had to be the same caller and, without any proof of who it was on the other end, Kuon just _knew_ who it was.

_“Kuon? Kuon! That is you, right? Kuon?!”_

Hell exploded in his ear through a crackling line and weak signal but he knew the voice, recognized the fear and worry as it lashed out in a panic and struck his heart. Heart beat slow and steady, Kuon’s fell closed as he held the answered cell to his ear and listened, hearing shuffling and quick breathing on the other side of the world. 

He was incapable of answering, rendered speechless by the way his heart wanted to burst from his chest, overflowing like a glass filled with too much water that kept getting filled. No matter how much his heart tightened and overflowed with emotion, he couldn’t stop it as it flowed through him in an endless burst that knocked him off his feet. 

Not speaking was not the right choice for the caller.

_“Hizuri, Kuon you answer me, right now, or I’m getting your mother.”_

Instantly, at the surge of pure terror that only a mother’s fury could bring to her child, he responded. “I’m not a kid any more. And she would be more upset with you for not telling her you were calling me,” Kuon paused and when he spoke, his words were unsure, hesitant and quiet. “Dad.”

An emotional, lengthy silence fell between father and son.

When Hizuri, Kuu spoke, it was with a rough tremor. _“She understands, Kuon. We both do.”_ After a short pause, Kuu continued. _“I heard a bit from Boss.”_

It wasn’t a question and Kuon didn’t deem it with an answer. His lips remained in a thin line, eyes clamped shut, shutting down and refusing to acknowledge the bright pink elephant in the room. He may or may not have also been imagining strangling Lory. 

But his brown pools popped open, nearly flying out of their sockets, at the hard steel in his father’s next words. _“And if you come home Kuon, I will personally kick your ass right back to Japan.”_

Sitting up, Kuon leant onto his elbows, spine curving and cell pressed to his ear with wide brown orbs, eyebrows skyrocketed into his hairline, and a surprise slackened jaw. 

And he said the only thing his emotional clogged brain could come up with: “….What?”

_“You heard me.”_

No idea what was happening and head spinning, Kuon blinked and licked his lips slowly, trying to find the words. Hell, he was still stuck in the sheer panic of Hizuri, Julie’s motherly wrath. The conversation was taking a turn he hadn’t expected and all the plans, all the heartache and all the decisions suddenly didn’t seem worth it. 

Muddling through the confusion, he managed to string together one of his biggest questions. “The parents who wanted me home for 5 years and the Dad who flew out to Japan just because he missed me, and that _is_ why you came, so don’t try to deny it….” A jumbled stream of breath and a snort told him his Dad had been prepared to completely deny it. “Those parents….Won’t _let_ me come home?”

_“Hmm….”_ Kuu hummed for a moment and then, sounding as if a parade had just told him he was the King of the World, he jubilantly chirped, _“Yeah, that’s about right. Glad we understand each other, Kuon.”_

There was a shuffle and a mumble of something unintelligible followed by several crinkling noises before Kuon found his voice again, exasperated and confounded. “ _Why_?”

This time, his Dad’s response was immediate. 

Cold awareness saturated his tone, seeping into his words with a chilly sting. “That isn’t going to happen.”

As if a button was pressed all the crunching, the crinkling crackle of snacks, and the sounds of utter joy came to a screeching halt. Foreboding misted over him, his hackles raising and, instinctively, he flinched. 

Kuu never yelled. Even when he was his angriest and despite his volatile, childish immaturity and his inability to express emotions like a normal adult, Kuu never raised his voice. When he scolded his son – which was very rare, Kuon remembered, for good reason – it was terrifying but not because Kuu got emotional.

It was because, like now, it was deep and soft, a gentle caress of the blade of a sword coated in shadows. He didn’t raise his voice but instead, there was no emotion whatsoever, no way to tell where his thoughts were and Kuon’s body jumped the moment that smooth, steely voice echoed in his ears. _“And just what do you intend to do? Run back here with your tail between your legs? If you run now, you’ll be running for the rest of your life. Listen to me and you listen good: love isn’t easy, Kuon, and you know better than anyone how hard it is for Kyoko. If you run away, Kuon, all you’ll do is disappoint her just the way she wants you to. She doesn’t want to be loved. Doesn’t believe anyone can love her but you **do**.”_

All the doubts and the fears, all the indecision and cracks of his broken heart, gently unravelled like a knot in the string of Fate had been unwoven. 

His Dad’s voice dipped and Kuon’s heart clawed into his throat, a hot, wet sting prickling behind his eyes as he remembered all the smiles and all the kisses between two people who had never given up on each other. _“You do. You love her. But if you run away, she will know you don’t. If you run….You really will lose her. You’ll be telling her she was right all along, that she is unlovable, and you and I both know that isn’t true.”_

Perhaps he sniffled or maybe his sigh when it fell from his lips was shaky but before he could respond, Kuu tried to lighten the air between them. _“You really know how to pick’em.”_

A derisive chuckle, half snort and half laugh but full of self-loathing, escaped through the hot, tight ball in his throat. “You’re right….But it’s too late. She’s already made up her mind. She doesn’t want me.”

Who could ever want him? He wanted to step out of the limo weaving through traffic and run until he found her and then he wanted to sweep her off her feet like she deserved. All Hizuri, Kuon wanted to do was love her but he turned his back on her, he’d already shown her the monster he truly was, and the only one she would run to now was the smirking bastard who had never deserved Kyoko’s heart. 

By trying to spare her, the Beast pushed the Princess into the arms of the selfish Prince who loved no one but himself. 

_“Did you ask her?”_ The blunt, matter-of-fact question irked him.

“What is this? 20 Questions?”

_“I don’t know; is it going to take me 20 questions to find the answer?”_

The crinkling resumed and Kuon relaxed back into the leather seat, a ghost of a smile dancing across his lips. 

This was the Dad he had loved and idolized. “How old are you again?”

He could hear the grin through the phone. _“Old enough.”_

Light, fond amusement raced through him and his pulse danced to the beat of his heart, a familiar yet tiny glow, an itty bitty dot of light, settled right in the middle of the empty void in his chest. 

Hope. 

And the memory of what it meant to be happy.

_“So, did you ask her or is this guess work?”_

Which all came crashing down around him, the tiny spark battered by the darkness that rushed at it, trying to snuff it out before it could grow. 

“I didn’t need to.” His fingers twitched around his cell through the searing numb tingling over his broken hand.

The phone crackled and Kuon sighed, listening for any sign his Dad had heard him and hoping the signal nor the call had dropped. 

Distracted, Kuon didn’t notice the inaudible whispering beneath the crackle of the phone connection so he was unexpectedly caught off guard by the clear, sweet melody that ignited the tiny spark into a blazing inferno, burning away all traces of darkness and scattering warm light through every piece of him. 

_“You’ve only got one chance to try, baby. And if you’ve never truly given it everything you’ve got, you haven’t lost yet. Besides,”_ The tears were hot and heavy, swelling like a river flooding over it’s edges, but he smiled wide at the sly playfulness in Hizuri, Julienna’s lilting voice. _“My boys never know what’s best for them. Only mothers know the truth.”_

Kuon raised an eyebrow as he laughed, loud and honest, hope and light warmly embracing his fears. The light of his mother’s voice rusted the shackles on his inner demons and set them free. 

Two puzzle pieces, one of a young boy with a wide bright smile and the other of a man with a mask and a hollow chest, clicked together and Kuon couldn’t resist the childish urge to tease his Dad. “I don’t think Dad counts as a boy, Mom.”

_“No no, not him. I meant my other son. The girl.”_ She paused and when she spoke again, Kuon slapped a gloved hand over his mouth as a loud puff of laughter squeezed out of him. _“But don’t let him fool you. Your father is just as hopeless as you two.”_

An image came unbidden then, one that squeezed at Kuon’s heartstrings and stoked the glowing hope nestled inside of him. One day, he wanted to be sitting in his parents’ Californian home, Kyoko right there next to him. The image of them laughing at Kuu and Julie’s antics, at family dinners and late night movies, at the warm and comforting love that can only come from _home_ ….Kuon longed for the sudden _rightness_ of it. 

Because without Kyoko, it didn’t matter where he ran to: nowhere was home without her.

_“Don’t listen to your father, he’s an idiot.”_ A loud shout and a whine tugged at Kuon’s smile, widening it. _“Mostly. Is she the one, baby?”_

A part of him wanted to say no, still wanted to run away from the unknown.

Instead, Hope answered with the truth: “Yes.”

_“Then you chase her. And you don’t stop until you catch her. Then when you catch her, you bring her home so I can meet her and love her too. It’s not fair everyone has met her but me!”_ The whine in his mother’s voice nearly caused him to choke but Julie was quick to carry on, bold and sure, not at all the kind of woman to hide what she thinks. _“If you want her Kuon, you have to tell her. Show her, tell her, and if you want her heart, you have to give her yours, too. Completely.”_

“All of it?”

Her voice was firm but softened with affection as she affirmed, _“All of it.”_

Hours ago, Heaven and Earth had turned, shifted, and collapsed together into a dark mess of rubble and disaster. His entire world had ended, flipped upside down, but his mother’s words were like a release valve. 

And then, as suddenly as it had fallen, Heaven and Earth shifted again.

What, exactly, had Kuon ever given Kyoko? Not once, though he had had plenty of time to tell her something, anything, _everything_ , had he ever given her anything of him. Instead, he secretly hoped this would happen, never fighting fully or honestly against Fuwa or their tangled Fate, so that he could always run with his heart still intact.

Because it was so much easier to break both of their hearts than for her to break his.

“Mom….” He breathed. “You’re amazing.”

Spinning, shifting, turning….

Then the world stopped and life resumed.

Her laugh brightened his new world. _“Tell me something I don’t know.”_

When he smiled this time, it wasn’t through a mask. Relaxing back, smile bright and wide, Kuon gave his mother back what she had always needed: her son. “I love you, Mom.”

_“Oh, baby….Me too. I love you too, Kuon. So much.”_ Tears thickened his mother’s voice, her grief fading in the overwhelming love and relief of having her son back. It nearly tore him apart until Julie released a sudden, huffy exhale. _“Oh, for God’s sake, Kuu! Here, Kuon, tell your father you love him before he goes into the backyard and digs himself a grave!”_

He laughed at the shuffling noises and rustling he just knew was his Dad trying to wrestle the phone from Julie. There was a loud smack and a whimper followed by a thump and Kuon’s smile almost split his face in half. 

And when he laughed, it was clear, bright, and straight from the heart.

_“So, do you think you have enough love for your Dad, too? Or did your Mom steal it all?”_ His Dad yelped into the phone and Kuon’s smile curved devilishly that would have had all of Japan screaming and fainting. 

He shrugged, stretching out his long legs and crossing them at the ankles. “I don’t know….Considering your stomach, I hope your heart isn’t as greedy.”

_“No, it’s worse.”_ His Dad stated it as if it was an obvious fact.

And Kuon knew it was because if there was anything Kuu loved more than food, it was his children. 

Kuon snorted at the blunt honesty but waited quietly, grin widening the longer he drew the silence out until Kuu couldn’t take it any more and it burst from him in a loud, whiny torrent. _“Kuuuuuuuoooooooooon.”_

A boyish laugh as he imagined the pout and indignant stomp his childish father would invoke before he rolled his brown eyes upward. “Yeah, Dad, I love you too.”

_“See?! See, Julie, he loves me, too!”_ At the loud shout, Julie’s musical laughter lightened Kuon’s chest until he felt he could float. _“Go get her, Kuon. You can’t give up. Your mother is right and she knows what she’s talking about. She did pick me after all.”_

Father and son both shared a laugh at the Russian curse words shouted from somewhere in the Hizuri’s California home. “Thanks, Dad.”

_“You’re my son, Kuon. We love you. Now,”_ His shoulders tensed and eyes narrowed at the sudden change in his Dad’s voice. _“Come home soon. And don’t forget to marry my girl and treat her right so we can have little grandchildren runni–_ “

Heat flooding his cheeks, Kuon hastily pulled his cell away and slammed the red button, exclaiming at the shot of dull pain it sent into his hand. He stared at the phone before shaking his head, cheeks slightly pink at Kuu’s teasing parting. 

Then he remembered he had a Princess to rush off and save. 

“Ruto?”

The black glass rolled down quickly and Kuon leaned over, one elbow digging into the padded leather, but he froze with his mouth hanging open when he recognized the scenery out the front of the limo.

The car was running but they hadn’t moved from the Daruma-ya. Unsure, but knowing he had definitely felt the limo driving, he looked to Ruto questioningly with a raised eyebrow. 

He knew before the man even made words by the confident smile. “Lory’s orders were to pick you up safely. But he said where you needed to go, I couldn’t take you until you told me.”

“Where did you drive?”

“Around the block a few times.” Ruto met his gaze firmly. “Are you telling me where I need to go?”

A wide, toothy grin spread as he shook his head. “Yes, I am. I don’t need to tell you where to go, do I?”

“All the arrangements have already been prepared. Please sit back, Kuon, and I’ll take where you need to be.”

He did just that, picked up his cell, and hit speed dial. The call connected just as the visor slid closed. “You bastard.”

_“That’s rude, you ungrateful brat.”_

“Thanks….” Kuon trailed off, breath coming to a halt as his heart sped up and he swallowed past his embarrassment. It had been years since Kuon had said it and though it was simple, and said regularly by others, it meant a lot more to Kuon. “….Lory.”

There was a sniffle and Kuon started to ask, “Are you –“ but he never got to finish before Lory hastily broke the tremulous peace. _“Damage control!”_

His heart sunk. “That bad?”

_“Yashiro was crying.”_

“He always cries.”

Lory huffed and then exhaled slow and heavily from the cigar Kuon realized he was still smoking. _“He was crying because Mogami-kun was crying. If you’ve set her back, Kuon, if you can’t make this right, you’ll be joining her in the LoveMe Section until you do.”_

Beneath the amusement and the devious humor lie not a threat but a promise and Kuon paled at the dawning horror that Lory was prepared with a bright pink jumpsuit for his Number One nephew. 

Rushing for a distraction, Kuon debated telling Lory what his plan was, but he was going to need all the help he could get and Lory was always better as an ally than an enemy. “I’m going to tell her. Everything. All of it.”

His mother’s repeated words cemented the truth that this was _right_. 

 

“Where is Ruto taking me?”

_“To where you need to be. Yashiro is aware. He knows.”_

For a moment his heart stopped but Lory cursed and reiterated, correcting Kuon’s panic before it could escalate. _“Not about you, stupid boy, that’s your job. About the plan. He’s distracting the LoveMe Princess while the Knight delivers her Prince to her. Then, it’s all up to you, Kuon.”_

A sliver of trepidation snaked through him and he groaned, throwing back his head and closing his eyes as a thought struck him. “This is in a very public place with all your hidden cameras and spies everywhere, isn’t it?”

_“Good luck, Kuon.”_

The dial tone was all the answer he needed.

A Fairy Prince with torn wings and rusted armor met his Princess in a gazebo where she was crying into her hands, a bright bluish-purple stone clutched to her chest. He fell to his knees, hair glittering like golden silk and pools of lush emeralds streaked with red, and he gave her everything, his heart and the truth, all laid out before her teary, golden eyes and the blue stone that symbolised both their hearts.

He gave her everything and hoped it was enough. 

When she fell before him, she took his monstrous hands in hers, and in his cupped palms she placed the jagged, imperfect stone, enclosing his large hands over it. Her small fingers clasped over his and when the golden eyed Princess met the bright green of her Fairy Prince, the world shifted one last time. 

And when they kissed, that blue stone held between them, he knew it was right.

So what happens at the end, with a Fairy Prince and a Golden Princess? 

Well, isn’t that easy?

They lived happily ever after. 

(Until the Fairy Prince and the Golden Princess find their ten year old twins, their eight year old daughter, and their four year old son with Grandpa Lory and Uncle Yashiro watching the hidden camera footage of that day and the many, many emails of it sent to various people over the years. 

But that is a story for another time.)


End file.
